"Why, be the holy piper," says Larder, "I think you are dthrawing a little on your imagination. Not read Fraser! Don't believe him, my lord duke; he reads every word of it, the rogue! The boys about that magazine baste him as if he was a sack of oatmale. My reason for crying out, Sir Jan, was because you mintioned Fraser at all.
Bullwig has every syllable of it be heart--from the pailitix down to the 'Yellowplush Correspondence.'"
"Ha, ha!" says Bullwig, affecting to laff (you may be sure my ears prickt up when I heard the name of the "Yellowplush Correspondence").
"Ha, ha! why, to tell truth, I HAVE wead the cowespondence to which you allude: it's a gweat favowite at court. I was talking with Spwing Wice and John Wussell about it the other day."
"Well, and what do you think of it?" says Sir John, looking mity waggish--for he knew it was me who roat it.
"Why, weally and twuly, there's considewable cleverness about the cweature; but it's low, disgustingly low: it violates pwabability, and the orthogwaphy is so carefully inaccuwate, that it requires a positive study to compwehend it."
"Yes, faith," says Larner; "the arthagraphy is detestible; it's as bad for a man to write bad spillin as it is for 'em to speak wid a brrogue. Iducation furst, and ganius afterwards. Your health, my lord, and good luck to you."
"Yaw wemark," says Bullwig, "is vewy appwopwiate. You will wecollect, Sir John, in Hewodotus (as for you, Doctor, you know more about Iwish than about Gweek),--you will wecollect, without doubt, a stowy nawwated by that cwedulous though fascinating chwonicler, of a certain kind of sheep which is known only in a certain distwict of Awabia, and of which the tail is so enormous, that it either dwaggles on the gwound, or is bound up by the shepherds of the country into a small wheelbawwow, or cart, which makes the chwonicler sneewingly wemark that thus 'the sheep of Awabia have their own chawiots.' I have often thought, sir (this clawet is weally nectaweous)--I have often, I say, thought that the wace of man may be compawed to these Awabian sheep--genius is our tail, education our wheelbawwow. Without art and education to pwop it, this genius dwops on the gwound, and is polluted by the mud, or injured by the wocks upon the way: with the wheelbawwow it is stwengthened, incweased, and supported--a pwide to the owner, a blessing to mankind."
"A very appropriate simile," says Sir John; "and I am afraid that the genius of our friend Yellowplush has need of some such support."
"Apropos," said Bullwig, "who IS Yellowplush? I was given to understand that the name was only a fictitious one, and that the papers were written by the author of the 'Diary of a Physician;' if so, the man has wonderfully improved in style, and there is some hope of him."
"Bah!" says the Duke of Doublejowl; "everybody knows it's Barnard, the celebrated author of 'Sam Slick.'"
"Pardon, my dear duke," says Lord Bagwig; "it's the authoress of 'High Life,' 'Almack's,' and other fashionable novels."
"Fiddlestick's end!" says Doctor Larner; "don't be blushing and pretinding to ask questions; don't we know you, Bullwig? It's you yourself, you thief of the world: we smoked you from the very beginning."
Bullwig was about indignantly to reply, when Sir John interrupted them, and said,--"I must correct you all, gentlemen; Mr. Yellowplush is no other than Mr. Yellowplush: he gave you, my dear Bullwig, your last glass of champagne at dinner, and is now an inmate of my house, and an ornament of my kitchen!"
"Gad!" says Doublejowl, "let's have him up."
"Hear, hear!" says Bagwig.
"Ah, now," says Larner, "your grace is not going to call up and talk to a footman, sure? Is it gintale?"
"To say the least of it," says Bullwig, "the pwactice is iwwegular, and indecowous; and I weally don't see how the interview can be in any way pwofitable."
But the vices of the company went against the two littery men, and everybody excep them was for having up poor me. The bell was wrung; butler came. "Send up Charles," says master; and Charles, who was standing behind the skreand, was persnly abliged to come in.
"Charles," says master, "I have been telling these gentlemen who is the author of the 'Yellowplush Correspondence' in Fraser's Magazine."
"It's the best magazine in Europe," says the duke.
"And no mistake," says my lord.
"Hwhat!" says Larner; "and where's the Litherary Chran?"
I said myself nothink, but made a bough, and blusht like pickle- cabbitch.
"Mr. Yellowplush," says his grace, "will you, in the first place, drink a glass of wine?"
I boughed agin.
"And what wine do you prefer, sir? humble port or imperial burgundy?"
"Why, your grace," says I, "I know my place, and ain't above kitchin wines. I will take a glass of port, and drink it to the health of this honrabble compny."
When I'd swigged off the bumper, which his grace himself did me the honor to pour out for me, there was a silints for a minnit; when my master said:--"Charles Yellowplush, I have perused your memoirs in Fraser's Magazine with so much curiosity, and have so high an opinion of your talents as a writer, that I really cannot keep you as a footman any longer, or allow you to discharge duties for which you are now quite unfit. With all my admiration for your talents, Mr.
Yellowplush, I still am confident that many of your friends in the servants'-hall will clean my boots a great deal better than a gentleman of your genius can ever be expected to do--it is for this purpose I employ footmen, and not that they may be writing articles in magazines. But--you need not look so red, my good fellow, and had better take another glass of port--I don't wish to throw you upon the wide world without the means of a livelihood, and have made interest for a little place which you will have under government, and which will give you an income of eighty pounds per annum; which you can double, I presume, by your literary labors."
